


As You Wish

by myadamantiumheart



Series: The Desert King [4]
Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Multi, Timestamp Meme: Five Years Later
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-17
Updated: 2013-07-17
Packaged: 2017-12-20 11:28:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/886721
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myadamantiumheart/pseuds/myadamantiumheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His lover wishes for something even the Desert King cannot provide.</p>
            </blockquote>





	As You Wish

**Author's Note:**

> A Timestamp Meme Fic
> 
> Timestamp: Five years after the end of 100 Nights in Arabâya, four years after the end of A Great and Terrible Defiance of Fate.

The gala is almost stifling in the heat- the opulence of it all, the debauchery overflowing and pooling, sticky, in the hollows of Timotheé’s collarbones. The Desert King sprawls beside him, his fingers trailing lazily back and forth across the uppermost ridges of Timotheé’s pale, exposed spine, like a prideful lion flicking its tail lazily in the summer sun. He is not, this time, a lion in the colors of his birth; for this gala, he has taken the colors of his husband.

Damian tilts his head back, silver chain cold against his throat, and the sapphire scarves that wrap his torso shift, sheer and almost useless at covering him. There is no modesty- not at an Arabâyan gala. Not when the round stages are covered in pillows that cradle writhing bodies, barely concealed or not concealed at all. Timotheé raises a single hand, nails painted henna-red, and brushes the almost rooster-comb of Damian’s hair off his sweating forehead, rubbing his thumb absentmindedly along the line of his husband’s nose. Damian sighs, a heaving thing, and presses closer.

“If only we could escape the gala dinner,” he murmurs, breath fanning out across Timotheé’s exposed hip bone, his mouth brushing the back of his hip and his teeth faintly grazing Timotheé’s slender waist. Timotheé shivers, his fingers curling in the soft material of his loose bedlah. His laughter is silent, and his eyes are amused when he glances down at his lounging husband, curled up like the lanky teenager he sometimes seems to have never grown out of being.

“If only we weren’t  _kings_ ,” he says wistfully, mockingly, his fingernails digging into Damian’s scalp a little before he smoothes the hair back and cups his husband’s cheek. “At least we are without children, beloved,” he bends in half to place a gentle kiss on Damian’s forehead. “Imagine that, how little time we would have to do things.” Damian sighs again, tilting his chin up and begging a kiss from the Lavender King sitting beside him, letting his beloved’s breath wash sweet over him, smelling of honeyed delicacies.

“Do you not ever wish for a child,  _habibi_?” the Desert King asks, his eyes half-lidded and his fingers tracing delicate patterns along Timotheé’s thigh through the crimson bedlah. He pressed his jaw to the edge of Timotheé’s hip, curling closer, a savannah predator disguised in the mannerisms of a house cat. “A child to call our own?” Timotheé sucked in a breath, looking out from their perch, past the veils that hide them from much of the gala’s participants.

He can see Dité and Jason in a corner booth, Jason pressing the smaller man up against the cushions and loving at his throat, leaving red-purple marks that Dité will bear like a necklace of precious amethyst tomorrow. The careful, slow, sensual movements of their unhurried rocking- Dité’s hands soft on Jason’s biceps, his head tilted back, a smile gracing his mouth- Timotheé looks away, finding Stephanie in the crowd, watching the way she’s making her own path towards Jason and Dité. The three of them and their strange relationship- what would it be like, if Timotheé and Damian had a child? What would it be like, for a child to have such aunts and uncles, ready to dote on them at a moment’s notice?

What would it be like, for a child to be surrounded by such love?

To be surrounded by not only Dité, Jason, and Stephanie, but also his own parents, Timotheé and Damian- his grandparents, his caretakers, his countrymen. To have Selina to kiss his bruises better, to have Ra’s to tell him the stories of triumph, to have Talia to teach him to balance a spear on his finger and Bruce to hold him tightly and to have unconditional affection from the court of Scedenig and the Lady Tamerre of Timotheé’s own home court.

“I wish, sometimes,” he says, after a moment of silence, the raucous party surrounding them almost drowning out his quiet reply. “Sometimes, a child comes to me, borne by the silver fish.” Damian’s mouth presses kisses to his thigh, to his fingers, to his hip, to his shoulder, as he sits up behind his husband. He breathes in the sweet spice and sweat of Timotheé’s nape, curving an arm around him to pull him back against his broad chest. His hand splays, hot as the desert sands, across Timotheé’s bare lower stomach, and he bites a kiss into Timotheé’s shoulder, nuzzling and breathing fire on his collarbone.

“I would give you all that you wish, beloved,” he murmurs, and Timotheé sighs, leaning back even more, his head lolling back on his husband’s shoulder, his forehead pressing to Damian’s neck.

“There are some things even you cannot give me,” Timotheé whispers, tilting his head to kiss the steady, calm thrum of Damian’s pulse. “And some things that even you should not promise.”

Damian’s hands tighten on him, but- the bell rings, tolling sweet across the gala, and the laughter and noise swells and recedes like a wave crashing on the shore.

Dinner is called.

Timotheé leaves the booth first, Damian following him, his hand finding his husband’s bare waist and his silver circlet returned to its place upon his head. Timotheé’s golden diadem already gleaming in the light of the hall. He watches the way Timotheé walks, his head tilted regally and his mouth softly smiling at those who greet him joyfully. His Lavender King is sweet- kind, quietly joyful, and thoughtful to the point of sometimes becoming lost even to his beloved.

He watches, and he thinks, and he drinks wine, and he eats, his Lavender King by his side.

And the Desert King plots.

——

The gala is long and longer still, even after dinner. There is wine, and more wine- liquor that burns sweetly, and dancing. Dité, looking thoroughly mauled by Jason, grabs his king in a show of impropriety that only those most beloved by his husband could get away with, and demands that he dance with his former harem-mates. Damian watches the two of them, Timotheé laughing, and twining his arms over Dité’s shoulders, and Dité’s fingers clasping at his husband’s slim waist, pulling him closer so that the taller man could rub his flushed nose against Timotheé’s. It is- well. Selina would claim it ‘adorable’.

Damian finds it  _almost_  endearing, the sugared glow of a friendship that Dité and Tim share.

Jason and Stephanie are watching as well, indulgent smiles on their faces, and their fingers twine openly on the cushions of their booth.

But eventually, as the moon rises further in the sky, the beat of the music turns decidedly less playful, and the lights dim further. The smell of sex is thick in the air, human knots tangled left and right. Stephanie’s mouth is nudging against Jason’s, glossed and gasping, and Jason’s hand is nudging under her skirts with little care for whether or not he shoves them up far enough to expose his lover. Damian tilts his head back a little, spying the figure of Cassander sprawled across a flushed Kon, her grin predatory in the amber shadows.

Visiting diplomats, at first somewhat uncomfortable with the unabashed and celebrated sexuality threading through the air and tangling between the people, have relaxed- wine and music lend laxness to their features, and Damian almost laughs. He cannot remember ever being horrified as outsiders are at the galas- they are simply facets of Arabâyan life, simple and uncomplicated celebrations of the fact of human existence that twines almost everyone together.

And his lover- his husband, his Lavender King, is glorious in the light of the stars and the lamps that seem to almost float in the sultry shadows and dim amber of the gala hall. The music has turned to a mere allegory; it is sex, sex on strings and with beats that resonate as a fascimile of thrusting rhythm. It tastes like the salt of sex and the sweet of sloppy, heated kisses. And Dité, ever the performer, has changed their dance to reflect it.

His thigh curves between the slender, pale legs of Damian’s husband, covered in their billowing, sheer blood-red bedlah, and his arms hook under Timotheé’s, his fingers splayed out across the top of his ass. They dance, a back and forth step slow enough to make Damian ache for it. His mouth is open, red and wet, and Timotheé’s cheeks are cherries, their foreheads pressed together and their eyes dazed, meeting each other in syrupy stares as they breathe in tandem.

He can tell when Dité’s thigh presses harder than it should, and Timotheé’s fingers tremble where they curve upward, gripping gently, clutching at Dité’s hair, his elbows resting against Dité’s neck (and their breath must be like two opposite winds in the spaces between them.) Dité’s arm curls at the small of Timotheé’s back, and he dips Timotheé back, achingly slow, his other arm sliding to support his upper back, and then- he grasps Timotheé’s hair, pulling him into an arch, his pale throat exposed.

Timotheé gasps for breath, his hips jerking upwards, and Dité simply smiles, bending to press a hot kiss to the arc of Timotheé’s throat, to nip gently, to draw a shudder. And then- he pulls him back upwards, stepping away, leaving Timotheé swaying in the middle of the room.

Timotheé smiles, slow and drugged, and his hand cups Dité’s jaw briefly, rubbing his thumb across a pinkened ear.

“Your lovers have started without you,” Timotheé says, his mouth moving slowly- Damian can barely hear him even though they’re a mere ten feet away. Dité laughs, glancing towards where Jason has pulled Stephanie into his lap, thrusting up slowly into her as she hides her face in his throat and he lets his teeth mark her shoulder.

“And your love is waiting, Tiya-bird,” he murmurs fondly, pushing Timotheé towards Damian. “I will see you on the morrow.”

When Timotheé turns towards Damian, Damian can see the red that dusts his cheekbones, the dazed look in his eyes that slides down along the curve of his smile. He can see the evidence of what dancing with Dité has done to him- he is aroused, and flushed, and Damian wants him in his lap ten minutes ago. He is gorgeous, glorious, breathtaking, and Damian pulls him into their booth, drawing the more opaque of the veils across the entrance, the moment he gets within reaching distance.

He presses Timotheé down, spreads him out across the cushions, and watches his lover breathe, for a moment.

“He touched you,” he says, voice low, his mouth pressing against Timotheé’s stomach. The Lavender King’s fingers twine in his hair, petting, stroking, and Timotheé nods.

“He did,” he says, soft and hot, and his stomach muscles tense under Damian’s feathering kisses.

“He  _aroused_  you,” Damian says slowly, smirking, nipping Timotheé’s hip, his hands tugging the bedlah down until his lover is exposed in the darkness, a pale glory of a moon before him. His fingers curl under Timotheé’s knees and pull them apart, lifting his legs until he can hook them over his own shoulders and press his face to the heated ivory of his husband’s inner thigh.

It smells like summer nights and sex and sweet and spice, here, and Damian can’t help but bite gently, suck, mouth at the flesh beneath his face. Timotheé writhes a little, his fingers clutching, and his soft sounds of pleasure only drive Damian’s words.

“Would you let him have you while we watched?” Damian murmurs, rubbing his own erection absentmindedly against the pillows and his sapphire bedlah. Timotheé gasps, shaking his head back and forth, and Damian leers, nudging his nose against his husband’s dripping cock. He laps up the pooling precome, sucking a kiss to the tip, and braces his elbows against the bed, Timothée’s thighs squeezing briefly, gently, at his neck as the Lavender King throws his head back and tries not to scream for it.

“I married  _you_ , foolish king,” he rasps, laughing in the shadows and tenderly stroking Damian’s flushed cheek. “I want  _you_  to have me.”

“What if I wanted  _both_  of us to have you?” Timotheé sucks in a breath, his cheeks flushing even deeper red. His eyes close, almost as if he cannot take the thought, and his mouth falls open on a desperate moan. Damian laughs, sucking at the head of his lover’s cock and then letting it slip out, straining upwards to lick the precome from Timothee’s taut stomach.

“Can we negotiate our bedroom activities at a time before or  _after_  we’re actually in the  _middle_  of them?” Timotheé laughs weakly, huffing a breath and pushing his hips upward. Damian smiles, hiding his face against his lover’s thigh.

“As you wish, beloved,” he murmurs, curling his hands under Timotheé’s buttocks and shoving upwards, as gently as possible. Timotheé lets out a startled whoop as he’s flipped over, and he grabs the pillows and humps down into them for a second, keening desperately before he cranes his neck to look back at the Desert King.

“As I wish?” he asks cheekily, closing his eyes and tilting his head back even further before pressing his face to the cushion in front of him. “I wish for you to make me  _come_ , husband-mine,” he says, muffled. Damian laughs back at him, pressing a kiss to the base of Timotheé’s spine and then biting down, relishing in the unrestrained buck of his husband’s hips, the muffled whimper. He nudges his husband’s legs apart, settling himself down on his belly and grabbing the booth’s vial of lubricant, setting it on the pillow beside his hip.

With possessive fingers, he spreads his husband’s cheeks, breathing hot on the line of Timotheé’s sacrum and then- kissing the rose pucker of his hole. Timotheé’s groan is gratifying, especially when it morphs into a wail as Damian presses the flat of his tongue against Timotheé’s perineum and licks upwards, leaving a spit-slick trail to cool behind. He stabs in- licks his way into Timotheé, groaning a little himself and rubbing against the booth, his nose nudging Timotheé’s sacrum and his mouth making love to Timotheé’s tight hole. He fucks his husband with his tongue, taking him, holding gently onto his hips as they roll down against the cushions.

“Oh,  ** _fuck,_** **aahnnn** -” Timothée moans fervently, turning his face from the pillow and keening, his fingers tearing at the scarves. Damian presses his tongue in as far as he can, curling it and moaning despite himself, his eyes closing and his fingers clenching convulsively.

He’s needed this- needed to take Timotheé’s ass, since he saw Dité press his thigh between Timotheé’s. It feels like victory and like coming home at the same time, the pleasure of fucking the wailing, desperate noises out of his Lavender King with his tongue. He kneels up, grabbing Timotheé’s hips and pulling, his lover’s face pressing to the cushions and his hips tilted up, his knees braced on either side of Damian’s thighs.

Careful fingers slick themselves and press into Timotheé, dragging the whimpers from his throat. His fingers are shaking a little, and Timotheé’s moans are wavering.

“I’m going to c-come the minute you- get  _inside_ , already, oh, fuh,  _uhn-_ _”_  Timotheé gasps like it’s punched out of his lungs when Damian curls his fingers upwards and rubs, hard, across his prostate.

This is his right- to give his lover pleasure. This is what he has earned; the trust of the Lavender King, the trust of the beautiful Timotheé Drake. The trust of a man who trusts him to make him desperate with it all, make him beg and swoon in bed. This is his victory, his prize, his privilege.

He slowly lowers Timotheé back to the pillows, spreading his thighs even further, and he presses in with the careful thrust of someone who is afraid their lover might perhaps shatter beneath them. Timotheé breathes once, twice, thrice, and-

“Fuck me,” he demands, impatient, his fingers reaching back to claw stripes of pink across Damian’s bicep. “ _Take_  me, love-mine-”

And Damian does, biting at his shoulders, at the nape of his neck. Kissing his throat hot and wet, fucking into him with deep, powerful thrusts that wring cries from his delicate, kiss-bruised mouth. Timotheé clutches the cushions like a lifeline, thrusting his own hips back at Damian and crying out like a wounded man, wounded by the choking, drowning pleasure that consumes them.

His lover is hot beneath him, writhing, squirming, his thighs trembling, and Damian relishes in it, taking him with all the power of the predator and all the consuming, sticky-sweet, boiling, honeyed fire of a Desert King’s love. Timotheé gasps, his cock rubbing against the sticky, soft cushions, and the combination of friction and fucking finally gets him too close to the edge to turn back.

Damian growls, curving his hand around Timotheé’s throat and pulling him back into an arch that makes him scream, his eyes clenched shut and his stomach spasming as he comes into the pillows and scarves, trembles and shakes beneath Damian.

Damian gentles him, pets him, soothes him, and his fingernails against Damian’s jaw, scratching softly, arousing- that’s what gets Damian off, a muffled cry against the nape of Timotheé’s neck and his hips thrusting hard and harder three more times before he rocks a little, swaying on the waves of his orgasm. They breathe as one, panting in the heat of the booth and just drifting a little to the sultry music before Damian pulls out, dragging his husband over his chest and covering them with a sheer scarf before he kisses his king, nudging his nose like Dité had earlier.

Timotheé smiles down at him, soft and tired and blissed out, and Damian curves his hand against his beloved’s cheek.

“I want the whole of my life to be shared with you,” he says slowly, slurring a little, his head falling back against the cushions. Timotheé’s smile widens, and the smaller man presses it to his husband’s throat, a secret just for him. “You say there are some things even I cannot promise you, beloved-mine, but for you, I would move heaven and earth. I would move mountain and sky, ocean and fire. If you want for something, I can do nothing but provide it for you, hopelessly and helplessly and happily.”

“You cannot give me a  _womb_ , Desert King,” Timotheé says, his tone clearly amused. “And, moreover, I would not  _want_  one. I am  _ **quite**_  happy to be fucked just the way you’ve been proceeding, and I would not want to change the way I’ve been fucking  _you_.”

“But I can give you a child, though it may not be ours in blood,” he says softly, stroking Timotheé’s spine.

“You have given me  _everything_ , Damian al Ghul,” Timotheé murmured, kissing his pulse. “You have given me love unnameable, unknowable, unfathomable, immeasurable. In the morning, we will talk of a child. For now, though-” he leaned upwards, kissing his lower lip briefly and pressing his forehead to Damian’s. “For now, let this love be enough, for it has overflowed the cup of my heart many times over already.”

“He whose cup overflows may never go thirsty,” Damian whispers. “And so shall you never want, ya hayati.”

“And so shall we never want.” And Timotheé closes his eyes- and Damian closes his eyes.

The two kings drift in their solitude.


End file.
